If there is one thing that I’m personally ashamed about, it’s the reality that I don’t watch a lot of international movies outside of the French New Wave genre. To me, France’s mix of style and ideology discussions is the perfect balance of comfort food. You’re always bound to get something interesting when you pop on a film by Francois Truffaut or Agnes Varda. As artists, they continued to push art forward in ways that I feel have rippled in filmmakers around the world. I wish that I was more aware of things like the Czech New Wave that brought with it filmmakers like Vera Chytilová and Milos Forman, or even the collected works of Akira Kurosawa.
Among those legends that I am embarrassed to be behind the curve with is Federico Fellini. His work in the Italian Neorealism has been so influential that halfway through Nights of Cabiria (1957), I saw whole sequences that reminded me of Roma (2018). There is something about his style that is dreamlike and draws you in. It doesn’t necessarily use fantastical imagery like Jean Cocteau, but you still feel like something is off.
I’ll admit that up until 2020, I had only really seen 8 ½ (1963). Don’t get me wrong. It’s a great movie. But where I could watch just about any other director and want to watch another and another film from them, I just never got around to my second Fellini. You could say it took 8 ½ years, though it was probably closer to 9. I don’t know why this happened, but I found myself being critical when earlier this year I watched La Strada (1954) and was personally amazed by how he mixed circus imagery with this eerie story lying underneath about a man who wasn’t able to appreciate his muse while he had her.
Though the one thing that was clear was that Giulietta Masina gave one of the greatest performances I had seen. Without diving into pastiche, she embodied a clown with Charles Chaplin technique, able to be expressive through smiles and quiet stares. Fellini found ways to make these looks more versatile as the story progressed, adding emotional depth to the clown perspective that I found moving. Masina transcends language barriers and wins you over immediately. It’s the charm you get from people like Toshiro Mifune or Anna Karina, who have this radiance about them that you can’t deny. They’re the most human performances in the world, and it’s something that can’t be taught.
That is why I became eager to turn on The Criterion Channel and find another Fellini/Masina film. I wanted to see if the magic would last.
Nights of Cabiria may not be a familiar title outside of those who obsessively watch the Best Foreign Film Oscar winners (which I encourage you to do), but I assure you that you’re familiar with some of its legacy. If you are even vaguely aware of Broadway culture, you’ll know the songs that were adapted into a halfway decent musical called Sweet Charity, which updated the 1950’s Italian countryside to New York counterculture. It’s a fun showcase of spectacle that just so happens to feature two noteworthy cornerstones of the stage: “Hey Big Spender” and “If They Could See Me Now.” It was even turned into a movie directed by the great Bob Fosse.
What is surreal is that despite the big cultural differences, it does feel like a practical adaptation. If you had to adapt Nights of Cabiria to stage, then they made all of the right calls in order to Americanize it.
What we have in Masina’s performance is one that is just as vibrant and exciting as you’d expect. Her life could be a musical with the way that she fraternizes with the johns, driving down the street while looking for somebody to give them a good time. As a song plays on the radio, she begins to dance, suggesting that nobody could move better than her. She is hypnotic, so in the moment that you’re dazzled by her ability to take in the wonders around her.
Then again, her supporting cast is a colorful series of characters. I don’t know if Fellini ever met a prostitute, but his depiction has this life to it that is undeniable in its charm. They yell from across the street, demanding that they respect each other’s space. Others yell just because they don’t know any better. Even if there’s no established code for prostitution, it feels so familiar in this warped way that it manages to feel simultaneously like this confident adult archetype while inherently childish. Cabiria is loved among the prostitutes, if just because this is another form of performance that Fellini is obsessed with. He wants to know what their personal lives are like.
As you can guess, Masina is electric, and there is something amazing about watching her ability to navigate this arguably plotless narrative. In the wide tapestry of characters, she is the only blonde in the room. When a movie star takes her to a jazz club, she stands out in a room full of brunettes, able to dance with more sultry energy than any of them. The movie star drives away in the only car that’s outside that isn’t black and also parked the wrong way. All of the small details stand out in Cabiria’s life, making her destiny throughout this journey feel more mystical. By the time she gets to the movie star’s personal mansion, she is overwhelmed with a luxury that she’ll likely never see again.
She is a woman who lives outside of the city, in a farming community. She is used to having to use every ounce of herself to put food on the table. That is why this journey into everything feels majestic. There’s little sense until the conclusion that there’s any remorse for her actions. She enjoys having access to these lives that explore economics, mysticism, and even religion. Even if her journey doesn’t have much of a conventional narrative, it does have a peek into wonders that most of us would love to see for a night.
The story begins with a rather striking image of Cabiria encouraging a man to jump into a lake with her. It’s not entirely clear why he refuses, but he steals her purse as she's pushed in. She drowns, needing extensive recovery methods by the townspeople to the point that she’s turned upside down and slapped until the water pours out of her mouth.
It’s a moment that’s not really commented on throughout the rest of the movie but reflects Fellini’s Neorealism at play. Does it symbolize her willingness to run into danger and not have a man who is willing to support her? Or is it a metaphorical baptism and rebirth into another life, reflecting her personal growth as a character throughout the entire film? What gives this particular read some levity is the consistent presence of religion, as a group of priests and altar serves are seen carrying crosses along a road, on their way to atone the next group of people.
This is the type of material that could make Fellini a bit challenging for the average filmmaker. As it stands, I wasn’t as willing to buy into the mysticism of this film as willingly as I was with La Strada. Maybe it’s because I saw so much of the shared DNA in both of these films, or that I have yet to fully crack what Nights of Cabiria even means. Why do we go through the scenes that we do, and what are they ultimately saying about her? I suppose that I need to read some essays, taking some time to consider if these are tangents or pieces of a bigger picture.
With that said, it’s the magic of Neorealism that can be quite attractive in the right hands. Fellini was the master of it, and the fact that he’s able to keep you thinking about something that feels so real despite only vaguely holding a familiar form of logic is sublime. He uses film as an exercise in art, allowing these themes to move and change throughout the scenes. It makes you believe in something spiritual, connecting the world together in ways that we’ve never considered before.
Another reason that I’m willing to bet that this is a story about maturity is how the film ends, moving through phases of impulse, control, and faith to a point where Cabiria has become so enamored by a man that she barely knows that she wants to marry him. He will take her away from this countryside lifestyle and give her the luxury that she’s been flirting with for the entire film. You buy into her joy because a story about escaping the humdrum lower class is an adequate way for a prostitute to feel.
As they visit a lake, there is a sense that she is ready for death. When things don’t quite go her way, she is eager to find some way to satisfy him. Marriage has paved the way for separation, leaving her to wonder what’s next in her life. In one of the film’s most cryptic images, Cabiria returns home while surrounded by a crowd of children playing with toys and celebrating. They all smile at her, even if she’s not ready to feel the joy that everyone around her has.
Is it a moment of rebirth all over again, or is Cabiria returning from the woods to a life of sucking up the wealth of others? Maybe the children represent her mentality, or that a new generation is birthed, ready to start their own journey through life. It’s a staggering image, and one that you want to make sense immediately, but again it only comes with extensive thinking that requires you to wonder why these nights were so important and why this story needed to be told. It’s not one of positivity. For all of the thrilling highs, it still manages to leave the audience empty, wanting something more.
I am sure that I will read one of these aforementioned essays and slap my head while saying “But of course!” For now, I want to sit with the movie and try to figure out what it means to me. Whereas I felt comfort in knowing enough what La Strada meant, I am still not sure what magic I had witnessed with Nights of Cabiria. To me, it still holds secrets that make me want to look closely, but not too close. I figure that Fellini is like postmodernism in that he presents you with answers, but only if you don’t nitpick too closely.
This is cinema as an experience. It makes you grapple with the story in such a way that you’re left a bit dumbfounded at first.
A big issue is that Neorealism is easy to make fun of that I think most will be quick to dismiss it than give it a fair shot. The idea of the abstract imagery is something that the film revels in, asking you why there’s a random church procession going on in the background, or why the film ends with such a cryptic, unsatisfying moment. Those who don’t have a grasp of the form are likely to make this all seem pretentious, but I promise you that Fellini won’t. He knows how to use it, and I personally think there is something magical about his work with Masina that I find infinitely charing.
Nights of Cabiria is a film full of wondrous secrets. Much like its protagonist, we’re allowed into this world and can only appreciate the symbolism if we’re caught up in the moment. What makes Cabiria so special? Why does she stand out in this world? I think coming out of this film with more questions than answers is evidence that the Fellini charm is in full effect here. Again, it’s not my favorite of the three films I’ve seen, but it continues to make me believe that I’m missing out, needing to keep looking closer. He has this magic not unlike Ingmar Bergman to make you believe in something just outside of view, that there are answers if we’re faithful enough to look. Even if there are no real answers here, I’m so glad to be stuck with Masina for two hours just enjoying the finer things in life. Sometimes that’s all you need to get by.
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